


Prankster

by andonewillbringhisfall



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 02:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11911740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andonewillbringhisfall/pseuds/andonewillbringhisfall
Summary: Simon decides to prank Baz the Normal way, using flour, hair dye, and a fake love letter.





	Prankster

**Author's Note:**

> More old fics from my Tumblr. This is in Simon's POV.

I’m standing in the middle of the Magickal History classroom, still in fighting stance, heart still beating too fast. I can feel the last hint of my magic around me, the air in the room still crackling with energy before slowly dying away. Everything smells like smoke. I look around me and survey the devastation I’ve caused.

The desks and chairs are blackened to cinders, scattered at the sides of the room, pushed back by the force of my explosion. The students are cowering on the ground, and just now, as the heady smell of magic recedes, they start stumbling to their feet, brushing black dust off their clothes. The only one still standing, who has remained standing throughout the entire debacle, is Baz. He hasn’t moved even half an inch from where he was standing before I went off, right next to me at the centre of it all. His arms are folded and his chin is lifted haughtily. He looks at the chaos surrounding us with obvious contempt.

‘This is all your fault,’ I growl.

He sneers and flicks his wand towards the desks at the side of the room, muttering under his breath to summon his desk and chair back to their original positions behind me.

‘I don’t see how it’s my fault, Snow, seeing as you’re the one who blew up. As usual.’

All around us, there are mutters of ‘ **as you were** ’ as everyone works to get the classroom back in order. Baz and I are the only ones who aren’t helping (and I’m not helping because I know I would just make everything worse).

‘You were being a git,’ I hiss back at Baz, and feel myself turn red again as a couple students spell my desk back to its position, its surface pristine once again. ‘Thankyou,’ I mutter. ‘Is anyone hurt?’

Penny comes over with my chair. ‘No, you shielded everyone, we’re all fine,’ she assures me, sighing. ‘Si, you can’t keep doing this.’

‘I know.’

She glances at Baz, who has started reading his textbook and is pretending to ignore us (at least, I think he’s pretending). She lowers her voice. ‘You can’t keep going off every time Baz pisses you off.’

‘I know.’

But the evil git was doing it  _on purpose_  – I restrain myself from saying this out loud, knowing that it isn’t the point. Baz  _enjoys_  provoking me, he does it for sport. It’s too bad the only way I can retaliate involves blowing up entire classrooms.

‘Yeah, Snow,’ Baz says, lifting his gaze from his book. His eyes are flinty and cold and full of malice. ‘Learn to control your emotions.’

It takes everything in me not to tell him to fuck off, but I manage it.

***

‘Maybe you should just get a punching bag,’ Penny says. ‘Would you find that cathartic, or would that make it worse?’

I sigh. ‘Probably make it worse.’ We’ve been kicked out of Magickal History for the day and we’re trudging (well, I’m trudging, Penny’s walking) down to the dining hall. She’s determined to find a solution before I burn down the entire school.

‘You  _really_  shouldn’t let Baz get to you,’ she says. ‘What with the Humdrum and the war, he’s really not very important.’

‘Easy for you to say! You don’t have to live with him. And he doesn’t hate you like he hates me.’ I start piling food onto my plate.

‘Yeah… you need to find some way to deal with your frustration, other than going off.’

‘Words don’t work for me,’ I mutter. ‘Not against him, anyway.’

We spot Agatha at our usual table and sit down across from her. I dig in as Penny turns to Agatha.

‘What do Normals do when they hate each other?’

Agatha’s expression suggests that she can guess what this is about and is thoroughly unimpressed.

‘Uh, avoid each other at all costs?’

‘Sounds nice,’ I mutter, in between mouthfuls.

‘Okay, that’s out, what else?’

Agatha places her fork down on the table and thinks about it. ‘When we were kids, my best friend hated this girl from school and they used to play pranks on each other.’

Penny raises an eyebrow. ‘Pranks. Hm. Like what?’

‘You know, the usual stuff, rigging buckets of water over doors, tricking each other into thinking it was crazy hair day at school.’

‘Not going to work,’ I say. ‘Actually, buckets over doors might be fun…’ I imagine Baz, perfect, impeccably dressed Baz, walking through a door and getting soaked. I imagine the look of annoyance on his face.

‘Petty,’ Penelope says. ‘But fun.’

‘Taunting me to make me go off is petty,’ I argue.

‘Your entire argument with Baz is petty,’ Agatha mutters under her breath.

‘No, it isn’t,’ I say. ‘We’re fighting a war here. It’s about good and evil. Right and wrong.’

‘And tossing buckets of water over him is going to solve that?’

‘No, but it’ll be satisfying. And harmless.’

***

After nightfall, I manage to sneak into the kitchen and borrow a sack of flour. (Possibly with a little bit of strategic help from Penny and her ring.)

I’ve revised the bucket-over-the-door plan and replaced the water with flour. A bedraggled Baz may be amusing, but flour will be a lot more of a nuisance. (Penny  _has_  pointed out that he’ll just use magic to clean himself up, which I’ll admit is a bit of a setback to this plan.)

While Baz is out on the football pitch (and I know his schedule off by heart so I know exactly when he’ll be back) I set up the contraption over the door to our room. I know the point of this as a Normal prank is the nuisance for the victim of having to clean up all the mess, which isn’t going to be a problem for Baz. But I reckon it’ll still be worth it to see him look anything other than cool and collected, for once.

I head back to the window as the light is fading, just in time to see him walking off the pitch. I lie on my bed with a book and wait for the door to open.

After twenty minutes or so, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I sit up just as the door crashes open, and just as planned, the sack of flour splits open and pours over Baz’s head. It goes off perfectly, stopping him in his tracks, flour billowing into the air around him in clouds of white.

When it all settles, I see him standing there blinking, an intensely irritated look on his face. He’s totally covered in flour. I fall back on my bed, laughing, as I watch him blink it out of his eyes.

‘Really, Snow?’ Baz says, through gritted teeth. I wish we were allowed phones at Watford so I could take a photo. When he turns his head to glare at me, specks of flour tumble off the ends of his hair.

‘Nice, Baz, looking neat and spotless as usual,’ I say, through laughter.

He huffs and pulls out his wand. When he points it at me instead of at himself, my laughter falters.

‘ **Two can play at this game** ,’ he says, and suddenly I’m the one covered in flour.

***

I stumble over to the bathroom the next morning, yawning. I brush flour out of my hair and it leaves a trail on the floor behind me. I did my best to get rid of it all last night, casting ‘ **as you were** ’ and ‘ **clean as a whistle** ’ over and over, and I  _still_  kept finding the stuff all over my pillow and under my sheets. Baz was thoroughly entertained.

So much for vengeance.

‘Agatha,’ I say at the breakfast table. ‘I need more prank ideas.’

***

I stroll casually into our room and hope that Baz doesn’t notice the suspicious bulge up the sleeve of my uniform. He’s sitting up on his bed and typing something on his laptop, and he doesn’t look up when I come in. Good. I smuggle my contraband under my pillow and then nonchalantly head over to the desk to grab a textbook.

Baz still hasn’t said a word to me when night falls and I head to the bathroom to change. When I get back into the room, he’s gone.

When Baz is out hunting (which is  _clearly_  what he’s doing) I know I have at least half an hour before he’ll return. I retrieve the hair dye I borrowed from Penny and head into the bathroom, searching through Baz’s various bottles. I don’t even know what half of this stuff  _is_ , let alone what it does. Luckily for me there’s a clearly labelled shampoo bottle, into which I tip the hair dye before giving it a good shake (just because it seems like a good idea). I replace the bottle on the shelf and climb back into my bed with a satisfied smirk.

Tomorrow morning will be very interesting. I just hope I don’t give anything away before then.

***

For once I make an effort stay quiet as I move about the room in the morning. Every few moments I glance over at Baz’s sleeping form and the mess of bright red hair splayed out on his pillow. I worry that I’ll wake him up with all of my giggling, so I hurry into the bathroom. The ideal prank would be for him to walk down to breakfast with the red hair, but unfortunately there’s a mirror in the bathroom and he’s bound to notice it before he leaves the room (unless vampires actually can’t see themselves in mirrors, which is what I’m hoping, but seems unlikely. It wouldn’t explain why he always looks flawless when he walks out in the morning.). Which is too bad, because if he walked out in front of the whole school with bright red hair, completely oblivious, it would probably make my entire year.

Normally I would rush down to breakfast as soon as I’m up, but today I take my time getting ready. I actually make an effort to do up my tie neatly, undoing it and trying again and again just to pass the time. Baz rolls over to face my side of the room, and I pause to watch him. He usually looks just as menacing when he’s asleep as when he’s awake, as if he’s daring you to try to take him by surprise, as though he’ll wake up and have you pinned to the ground within an instant if you even breathe too close to him. With the red hair, he just looks comical, and kind of sad.

He stretches, and a lock of red hair falls across his face. He brushes it away impatiently. It’s almost cute. I laugh.

‘What’s with you, Snow?’

Instead of responding, I laugh harder.

‘What the fuck,’ Baz mumbles as he sits up and then climbs out of bed. He looks positively fucking  _hilarious_. His hair is  _bright_  red, as in Ronald McDonald red, framing his deathly pale face, and he’s still wearing his usual sneer, the one that normally matches his sharp, vampiric features. He’s still walking like he’s an evil overlord who owns the place, and the overall effect is totally ridiculous.

The door to the bathroom slams behind him.

Moments later, I hear a shout of surprise, and a crashing noise. I collapse on my bed, roaring with laughter. In the gaps between my fits of mirth I hear strings of curses muttered from the bathroom, followed by unfamiliar spells, and then the sound of dropped items being replaced on the counter. Finally, Baz emerges, his hair back to its normal shade and his face twisted into its usual ugly sneer.

‘Hilarious, aren’t you,’ he mutters.

‘Yep,’ I say, grinning stupidly, and I spring off my bed and head for the door before he can throw a scathing remark at me.

That was  _every bit_  as satisfying as I hoped it would be.

***

I receive a lot of eye rolls from Agatha and Penny as I retell the story at breakfast.

‘Don’t you think this is childish?’ Agatha says.

I point an accusing finger at her. ‘Admit it. You wish you could’ve seen it.’

She sighs, but I see the corner of her mouth twitch in a smile. ‘Maybe a little.’

‘You realise Baz isn’t just going to let this slide,’ Penny says.

I shrug. ‘Totally worth it.’ I reach for another scone.

‘Do you think this is helping? Are you feeling less antagonistic towards Baz?’

I snort. ‘Never.’

Though I suspect the image of Baz with bright red hair might make me feel a lot better the next time he tries to provoke me.

‘Are you done pranking him though?’

‘Nope. The score is now Baz – one, Simon – one. I need one more prank…’

***

Prank number three is going to be the most difficult to pull off.

Which is ridiculous, because the other two were definitely more complicated. For the first one, Agatha had to instruct me on how to rig up a bag of flour over a door, which is a lot more complicated than it sounds. For the second one, I had to sneak the hair dye into Baz’s shampoo without him noticing, which is also more complicated than it sounds given my clumsiness and how hard it was not to spill anything.

Prank number three literally just requires me to write a message and then slip it under the door. The problem is that the message is a love letter, and that means I have to actually write the damn thing first.

According to Agatha, the fake love letter is one of the more common Normal pranks which all of her friends find endlessly entertaining. As soon as she suggested it, I knew it was perfect. As far as I know Baz has never dated anyone at all – which is unsurprising, given that he’s evil, not to mention a vampire. Much as I hate to admit it though, he  _is_ extremely good-looking. And also excels at magic, plays the violin, and is fluent in at least four languages. Plus he’s rich. And ridiculously well-dressed. And also extremely good with words. (Alright, so maybe it’s a little bit surprising.)

Anyway, since Baz is always so cold and composed and intentionally cruel, it’s hard to imagine how he would react to this particular prank. Hence why I’m so curious to try it out.

‘Help me out here,’ I say, still staring at a blank piece of paper after half an hour.

‘What have you got so far?’ Penny asks, looking up from her homework.

‘Nothing,’ I say, waving the sheet at her.

‘Oh.’

‘Pretend you’re writing to Micah,’ I say.

She smiles at the mention of his name, but then frowns at me. ‘No, that’s weird.’

‘Why? Pretend he’s here. Or you’re emailing him or something.’ I pick up my pencil and point it towards the sheet.

‘No, I can’t just generate romantic drivel on cue.’

‘Come on, Pen,’ I whine. ‘Tell me why you like him.’

She thinks for a moment, then rolls her eyes at me. ‘The reasons why I like Micah aren’t going to work for Baz. You can hardly write him a letter about how you admire his kindness.’

I groan. ‘Ugh. You’re right. It has to seem genuine, right?’

‘Don’t you think this is a bit of a low blow?’ Penny asks.

‘You should talk to Baz about low blows,’ I argue, thinking of all the time he’s taunted me about my parents and all the homes I’ve been to and the words I can’t seem to make work for me and the huge fucking responsibility of having the fate of the entire World of Mages on my shoulders. I think about him pushing me to go off, just for his own entertainment. I think about him pushing me down the stairs (I could have broken my neck!).

I groan and thunk my forehead on the table. ‘This kind of thinking is  _not_  helpful to writing love letters.’

Penny snorts. ‘Then change your thinking.’

I frown. ‘Like how?’

‘Like what would you be thinking if you were in love with Baz?’

I snort. ‘Uhhh, I probably  _wouldn’t_  be thinking.’

‘Well, you say you’re not a fan of thinking, so…’ She raises an eyebrow.

‘Maybe I should ask Agatha for help.’

‘Sounds like an excellent idea, Si. I’ve got homework to do. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be doing that too?’

I stand up and snatch the blank page off the desk. ‘I won’t be able to concentrate until I get this done.’ I head off in search of Agatha.

***

I catch Agatha at the end of her lacrosse practice.

‘Hey Agatha. Name three nice things about Baz.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘So you’re actually writing the love letter?’

‘Trying to. I’ve got nothing so far. You know I’m not good with words.’

‘It doesn’t have to be poetic.’

‘I know, but I don’t know what to say. I have nothing nice to say about Baz.’

She sighs. ‘Then lie.’

_‘Obviously_  I’m going to lie, but I need help coming up with things to say.’

‘Simon, you know him better than I do. Just sit down and think about things that make him attractive.’

I throw up my hands. ‘But there’s nothing that –’ I catch the look on her face and stop talking. ‘Alright. Fine. I’ll think.’

She heads off to change out of her lacrosse gear and I trudge back up towards my room, still clutching the blank page.

Okay, I’ll start by making a list of things a hypothetical (and definitely insane) person could possibly like about Baz. Right. Um. I’ll start with his appearance, because that’s the easiest. He’s infuriatingly tall. Which is definitely a bad thing, as far as I’m concerned, though I can see why people might find that attractive (which is a big part of the reason why it’s so infuriating, actually). And his hair, which seems overly dramatic and vampiric to me, might make him seem dark and handsome to someone else. Plus it looks like it would be  _really_  soft.

Okay, good, this is progress. Once I make it into our room and confirm that Baz isn’t here, I sit down and jot down two words on the page:  _tall, hair_. What else?  _Eyes_ , I write down. They’re cold and grey and usually levelled at me with a flinty glare, but they’re not really just grey, are they? They’re like really dark blue mixed with really dark green, like the choppy waves of the ocean in the middle of a storm, like something that’s going to drag you deep underwater without you even realising it until you’re drowning. Sometimes they look like being struck by lightning.

I write that last line down. Overly dramatic? Yes, probably, but that will make the letter funnier.

I write:

_Pale perfect skin like something I’m not allowed to touch_

_Ridiculously perfect straight teeth (??)_

_Calloused fingertips (from playing violin?). Perfect hands._

I look at the last one and frown. I have no clue where that came from. And it’s neither poetic nor romantic. Oh well. Just as I realise I’ve overused the word ‘perfect’, the door opens and Baz strides into the room, sparing a glance in my direction just long enough to sneer at me. I just know my whole face has gone bright red.  _Shit, the list_. I shove it under a textbook.

When Baz is settled at his own desk, three books open in front of him and typing furiously at his laptop, I cautiously slide the list back out. I’ve just remembered the list I had in my head earlier, and I write it all down before I can forget.

_Plays violin_

_Fluent in 4 languages_

_Words_

_Magic_

Even though the last two are used against me more often than not. I glance at Baz working on his homework across the room, and I add:

_Single-minded, unstoppable_

_Extremely intelligent_

_Amazing football player *swoon* (jk)_

_Strong, graceful… fucking ruthless_

Baz looks up and glares at me. ‘Do you need me to spell your laptop  _open_  this time, Snow?’

I quickly fold up the list and stuff it in my pocket before I can be tempted to add  _insufferable git._

Listing his talents is all very well, but I’m going to seriously struggle to find anything nice to say about his personality.

***

‘How’s the letter going?’ Penny asks at dinner.

‘Better.’ I show her the list.

She raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m impressed. Though not surprised. You would have had to notice some good things about him what with all your obsessive stalking.’

I grunt in grudging acknowledgement that she’s right.

I’m watching Baz across the hall. He’s sitting with his friends, and they’re both laughing at something he’s said. Probably something mean.

‘Penny, help me find something to say about his personality,’ I say. ‘Otherwise the letter won’t be convincing.’

‘You know him better than I do.’

‘But I hate him more than you do,’ I whine.

‘Don’t think about the way he treats you,’ she says. ‘Think about the way he treats the people he loves.’

***

I remember once in fourth year when a message came through the classroom window (one of Baz’s relatives had cast  **a little bird told me** ) saying that Baz’s little sister was hurt and the Minotaur didn’t want to let him out of class to go see her and he kicked up such a fuss, threatening the school and everything (like the pretentious twat that he is) until he was finally allowed to go and he sprinted out of the room like it was on fire. I don’t remember what happened to the sister or how badly hurt she was, but I still remember that fiercely protective look on his face and I truly believed he would do  _anything_  to make sure she was okay.

There was also that time we had to do presentations on the history of Watford and Baz chose to talk about his mother. His presentation was four times as long as anyone else’s and I remember seeing him hunched over his laptop for hours in our room after I’d gone to bed, wanting to make sure his presentation was absolutely perfect and did her justice. When it was finally time to give the speeches to the class, he went through every step in her career in meticulous detail, and he looked  _so fucking proud_. The whole class applauded loudly at the end of it. Even I couldn’t help myself from joining in.

Even when he’s talking to teachers or to the Mage, to people who have the power to get him in trouble or even expel him if they so choose, he never backs down from his ideals. He’ll say exactly what he thinks and he always defends his family, no matter the cost.

So I do know some things about him. He’s loyal to a fault, and he’s unfailingly honest, and even though I might not always (okay – I pretty much never) agree with his opinions, he’s always true to himself. And when he loves someone, he loves them fiercely.

Who wouldn’t want those qualities in someone they love?

***

I can do this. I can write this letter.

_Falling in love with you was the last thing I wanted…_

(Because it has to be realistic, and Baz doesn’t seem like someone you’d want to love. He seems like someone who’d shatter your heart with one touch.)

_I can’t think when you’re around me, and when you’re not, all I think about is you._

(It’s funny because it’s true. Just not the way the letter implies.)

I bite my lip and suddenly I’m scribbling furiously. The lines spring to my mind as fast as I can write them down, and I don’t stop to wonder whether any of it is realistic or poetic or too cheesy or even makes any sense at all, I just let the words go, the way they never seem to when I’m talking out loud.  _Especially_  when I’m talking to Baz. Somewhat ironically, now that I’m writing, I don’t even have to consult the list to be able to think of things to say. My handwriting gets messier and smaller as I near the end of the page.

_I don’t expect you to tear down your walls for me…_

_All I’m saying is I know you’ve got your scars and I just want you to know that I’m a mess too, and it’s okay because we match._

_Love,_

I pause.

_Your secret admirer._

No, that’s not right. I cross it out.

_Love,_

_A tragedy._

Because you’d have to be a tragedy to have written this, and meant it.

***

I have one last problem to solve before the prank is ready; the handwriting. I’m not going to give him my draft copy, because of all the crossing out, plus my weird little list on the back of the page, but mostly because he’ll recognise my handwriting immediately. He’s mocked me about it countless times. Plus most of it would probably be illegible to anyone but me.

I thought I would ask Penny or Agatha to write it out, even though I’m not sure either of them would agree, but now I’m hesitant. I’m not sure why, given that it’s only a prank, but I’m embarrassed at the thought of them reading it. It seems too personal.

Watford doesn’t exactly have printers that I could just hook up to my laptop. And I  _can’t_  let anyone else read it. So that leaves me no choice but to write it myself. I find another blank sheet of paper and sit down at my desk, glancing around, paranoid, before I get to work (as if Baz could be in the room without me having noticed). I copy the letter onto the new sheet of paper, taking time to write each word out meticulously. I slant the letters slightly, the way Agatha does, to try to make it look better. My writing still has absolutely no flair to it, but at least it’s legible, and looks nothing like my usual writing.

I fold the page in half and place it on the floor by the door, as if someone slipped it through the small gap. Then, as an afterthought, I write ‘BAZ’ on the back of it, so he won’t think it’s for me. I crumple up the draft letter and stuff it in my pocket (I’m not leaving any evidence lying around) and head downstairs for a snack.

***

When I get back to the room and open the door, I see Baz sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, his long legs folded up in front of him, the letter clutched in his hand. I don’t get to see his expression, because immediately he jumps up and flies at me. Shoves me back into the door, the crumpled up letter pressed against my chest.

‘Snow,’ he chokes out, and I’ve  _never_  seen him this livid. I can barely meet his eyes, they’re so dark (shit, it was true, about being struck by lightning), his face contorted into something worse than his usual sneer. ‘What.  _The fuck_. Is this,’ he snarls, his voice dangerously low.

‘I don’t –’ I splutter, trying to wriggle away from him. His hand clenches around the letter, and he doesn’t let me go, pushing harder so I’m pinned against the door.

‘What do you think this is,’ he continues, his voice rising, his eyes flashing. ‘Do you think I don’t know who wrote it?’ He’s shouting now. ‘ _You don’t think I know it was you?_  Fuck, Snow, fuck, this isn’t funny, I fucking  _hate_ you, you prat, this isn’t funny…’

He backs away from me suddenly, and the letter falls to the floor between us. I’ve never,  _ever_ , seen him lose control like that, I’ve never seen him so worked up, I’ve never… there’s something else in his eyes now, is he  _crying_? Shit, no, I don’t – I’m still standing frozen in shock against the door as he stumbles away and slams the door to the bathroom. He probably would have left the room, to get away from me, if I wasn’t still standing in front of the door.

I don’t know what just happened. I can’t hear anything from the bathroom, even though he sounded like he wanted to punch something, he looked like he wanted to kill something (probably me). Then I hear a crash, and I jump. I hope that was just a bottle of hair product or something, I hope he isn’t hurt, shit.

What did I do? I must have struck a nerve. Shit. I wasn’t expecting him to react like that. I just wanted to see him blush.

There’s silence again, and then the sound of running water. I feel myself relax, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath, thinking he might have hurt himself. I should leave. He obviously doesn’t want to see me. I’m probably just making things worse (I always do).

I walk up to the door and knock three times, hesitantly.

‘Baz?’

He doesn’t answer (not that I’m surprised). The water keeps running.

‘Baz.’ I say it more loudly this time.

I know he heard me.

I sigh. ‘Baz, just tell me you’re okay.’

How did this turn into me standing at the bathroom door, unable to leave him in peace because I need to know that he’s okay?

The water stops running, and a split second later the door flies open. I jump back, narrowly avoiding being hit in the face.

Baz always looks poised and guarded, his face made of jagged edges, his eyes stone cold, but now he looks like his heart has turned to ice. He starts walking, slowly, calmly, towards the door (but I know better, I can feel it all around us, the storm brewing, and he’s anything but calm).

‘Baz, wait –’ I scramble towards him and grab his arm. ‘I –’

He blanches, as though my hand were made of fire.

‘ _Don’t touch me._ ’

Shit, I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know what I did, I didn’t mean to hurt him like this.

‘I’m sorry, Baz, I’m sorry –’ He reaches the door, his movements now quick, sharp, and I keep repeating it, over and over. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I’m sorry…’

And then he’s gone, and I have to use all my self-control not to follow him.

I’m so  _confused_. And guilty. Fuck, I feel like such an ass, and I don’t know why.

***

First I pace. Then I stand staring out the window, then I lie on my bed. I keep glancing at the clock, and it’s long past midnight, and he’s still not back.

Then I pick up the letter off the floor and smooth it out (it’s crumpled so tightly I accidentally rip it a few times in the process) and read it again.

It surprises me. How heartfelt it sounds. How angsty, and confused, and heartbroken. And so  _very_ in love.

I try to understand what it was in the letter that struck a nerve. I did think about how Baz has never dated anyone… maybe this kind of love does mean something to him, more than I would have imagined. Maybe it just reminded him of something in his past. Maybe it was the bit about being a tragedy.

I honestly thought he would read it and go ‘what the fuck?’ and destroy it out of mortification. I didn’t think he’d be upset, just annoyed.

Somehow I must have pushed all the wrong buttons. I don’t know.

The door finally opens, just a crack, sometime after 5AM. It’s almost starting to get light out. Baz’s pale face peers around the door, and if he’s hoping I’m asleep, he’ll be sorely disappointed. I’m sitting up on my bed, cross-legged, with both copies of the letter in front of me. I haven’t even  _tried_ to sleep, and I must look like a mess.

I don’t move, watching him cautiously. He opens the door further and slips into the room. I manage to last about thirty seconds of him ignoring me before I have to speak up.

‘I’m really sorry, I just –’

‘I  _don’t_  want to talk to you,’ he says.

‘It was only meant to be a prank, I didn’t –’

‘It  _wasn’t funny_.’ He doesn’t look at me, just goes to his wardrobe and starts taking off his tie like it’s a normal evening, not five in the bloody morning.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

He doesn’t acknowledge my (umpteenth) apology.

It’s not unusual for Baz to be pissed off with me, but this is different. And this time I need to make it okay.

‘Look, I didn’t know that – whatever it is – I didn’t know you would react like this. It wasn’t supposed to hurt you.’

‘I said I don’t want to talk to you,’ Baz cuts in. He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up.

‘You were only supposed to think it was some girl with a crush on you –’

‘Why would  _some girl_  have a crush on me?’ he snarls, rounding on me. ‘Why would  _some girl_  ever want to write me a letter like that? For you, maybe. Fuck, Snow, did you think I was going to fall for it?’ He sneers. ‘Did you think I would believe that someone would love me like that, that someone would say it’s  _okay_  that I’m a mess because  _they are too_? You know,’ he says, now looming above me, his hands clenched tightly by his sides, ‘you could have done a much better job, you could have actually pulled off the prank, if you’d just made it a bit more realistic. If you hadn’t made it sound so fucking  _beautiful_.’

‘Shit, Baz,’ I say quietly.

I suppose I didn’t think of him as this human. I didn’t think he could be broken. I mean, I guess I did, because so am I, and on some level I think I recognised it in him. That’s what I was trying to say in the letter. And because I’m broken too –  _because we match_  – I should have realised how hurtful it was to make those words into a joke.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Truly.’

He presses his lips into a thin line and takes a step back, away from my bed. ‘Forget it. Everything I said. That’s not even why I’m so mad.’

I frown. ‘Then why?’

‘Because. Because it was  _you_. Did you write all that yourself? Or did you get Bunce to do it for you? Or Wellbelove?’ He sneers.

‘I wrote it,’ I mumble.

‘I know. I know.’ He nods. ‘I could tell.’ He takes another step back.

‘I really am sorry.’

‘I don’t care. I’m done talking to you. Go to sleep.’ The mask is back over his eyes.

I don’t know what I should do. But I need – I  _need_  – to fix this. I can’t stand it.

Slowly, I climb off my bed, and take a few steps towards Baz. Another step, hesitantly, like I’m trying not to scare him, and I watch his face for a reaction, but find nothing (nothing that I can understand, anyway).

I haven’t planned this out. I haven’t thought this through, or decided what I’ll do when I get to him, that will make everything okay. I stop when I’m so close that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest, and make out every individual eyelash. I could have said something about that, in the letter, about how long and pitch black his eyelashes are.

He doesn’t move, and I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing. I reach up and gently brush my knuckles against his cheek. He flinches, but he doesn’t push me away. I turn my hand over so I can cup his cheek, and my thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth, and I don’t recognise the look in his eyes, but he still doesn’t move. I slide my hand up to comb my fingers through his hair (it is soft, just like I thought), and he closes his eyes.

He looks like a figure carved out of marble. He’s holding his breath, I think. He looks untouchable (I can’t believe he’s letting me touch him).

When I touch my other hand to the back of his neck – still careful, like he might break – he breathes out a quiet, shuddering breath. His skin is so cold.

‘Simon,’ he whispers. He sounds like he’s in pain. ‘Did you mean it? Stop teasing me.’

I rise up on my tiptoes – because he’s always been taller than me – and I let my mouth drift closer to his.

‘Yes,’ I breathe, without running it over with my brain first. Did I mean it? I must have. ‘Everything I wrote in that letter was true…’

‘Impossible,’ he mumbles, but his eyes are still closed, and he’s moving closer too, so slowly.

‘No, I mean it, I’m a tragedy, and I’m hopeless, I’m hopelessly…’

The gravity is too much, and we fall forwards, and we kiss, softly, still barely touching, and if I thought I was feeling too much before, then this might tip me over the edge.

‘Simon,’ he murmurs, into my lips.

‘Baz,’ I say, and press forward, just a little.

My hand is still on the back of his neck, and I move it slowly over his cheek, and his jaw, and down to his shoulder. I never thought I would get to touch him like this.

‘You said it was a prank,’ he says, and I open my eyes to stare into his. They’re still so dark.

‘I did. It was.’ I tangle my fingers in a lock of his hair. ‘But it turns out I actually really want to kiss you, so…’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Do you know why I was so pissed?’

‘Why?’

‘Because everything you wrote is exactly how I feel about you…’

‘Oh,’ I say stupidly. And then I smile, stupidly. Crowley, I don’t know why I’m so happy. I mean, I do, obviously.  _Baz._

‘Then in that case, I guess we match…’


End file.
